


All Of Your Questions

by Go0se



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Caleb Widogast is a Mess, Don't look at me like that, F/M, Mentioned Astrid/Caleb Widogast, Mentioned Yeza Brenatto/Nott, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Strong Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2020-07-23 12:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20008261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go0se/pseuds/Go0se
Summary: In which Caleb fantasizes about Nott, then has feelings about it. Damned things.He tries to ignore them but circumstances keep making that exceptionally difficult. Especially in Uthodurn's library, and later, in a tower under endless night.





	1. Nicodranas

**Author's Note:**

> Mild spoilers are for Nott's backstory and the later half of episode 71!  
> This fic owes a spiritual debt to Sour_Idealist's work, particularly "[been so long lonely"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14588130); you should go check them out, they're very good. As for this one, yes, I am indeed legally required to put in as many em-dashes and ellipses as is physically possible.  
> 

Caleb does not intend to think of Nott like. Like that. Especially not after their conversation at the beach, where she’d been so brave, honest and frighteningly sincere, and he’d been... himself. Sex should be the _last_ concept he has on his mind.

Out of the entire Neine, he's never even seen Nott completely naked. In the bathhouse in Zadash, she’d been under the illusion of a half-sized half orc; and when they’d traveled alone together it was simply practical that they bathe as little as possible.

But s _he_ has seen _him_ naked plenty of times. Which-- Caleb ignores how he can feel the back of his neck flushing, and how his hands nervously skitter around until he jams them under the hotel’s gorgeous down pillow with its warm red cover. Fine. Gutte. He narrows his concentration to those collection of woven threads, nothing else. He breathes in very deliberately, holds the breath over his heart, then exhales.  
The distraction doesn't hold for long.

In his lonesome borrowed room, in Jester’s mother’s beautiful home, he remembers the beach. The sand under his boots and the warm sun on his hastily-changed Xorhassian clothing; Nott’s-- Veth’s-- disguised form beside him. Her implication and vague hand gestures, half-embarrassed, which if she hadn’t been wearing her illusion would’ve sent her ears twitching like fluttering leaves. Caleb’s extremely blunt realization that’d made his face start burning.  
It’s not that he didn’t know she had slept with Yeza. They’d been _married_ , and that was generally how children happened.  
Obviously he’d known that she was interested in sex, too, from spending so long on the road together and the way certain men and women would catch her eye for a quick second glance, even as she hid behind her porcelain mask and hood. It was staunchly none of his business. She was a grown woman by goblin standards (and had been by halfling standards as well, although the past tense hurts, it _hurts)_. She could do what she pleased.

But now the whole situation with Yeza had Caleb agitated, on Nott’s-- _Veth’s_ \-- behalf. Not that her private life is any more his business than before. It’s complicated. She's always been afraid of rejection, for good reason, and-- he wishes that Yeza had shown her more affection, physically, because that was what she’d wanted.

Is it that strange to want your best friend to be happy? To think she’s beautiful? For her to be treated like she wants-- with affection?

Surely it can’t be. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in _love,_ as Beau asked him back in the Xorhaus that extremely awkward night. Wanting your favourite person in the world to feel-- accepted. Appreciated.  
No.

Picturing them naked was on another level, however. The problem is he’s _curious,_ now, as he had always been curious.  
He’s seen unclothed women of many species in his life-- which he is _also not thinking about_ , thank you-- but he has not even considered, before, goblin anatomy aside from basic traits. Goblins bled, breathed, ate and slept. (Burned, as well, he thought miserably.) They have similar body plans to humans: two arms, two legs, no tail or horns, two eyes, two ears.

For all that there were still stark differences. Nott’s ears are much more sensitive than Caleb’s.  
"Sensitive" was the wrong word. Perceptive. Expressive.  
Expressive ears, luminous eyes for seeing in darkness that bloomed outwards feline-like when she was particularly happy ( _or_ high as balls), clever fingers with clever claws, a mouth which was dear to him because it was hers _._ He’d felt the narrow band of her spine as she’d nudged backwards into his shins when they’d shared a bed. Her ribs probably showed, as well, from just above her hips to below her skinny shoulders.  
Her breasts were like two scoops of wheat under her nightshirt, draping barely an inch in front of her. He’d politely ignored the roundness of her nipples under the same shirt it during colder nights, but now he wondered, would they be paler or darker than the surrounding skin, or simply a different hue of green; or the same, and only distinguishable by texture?

The thought catches and now he is imagining _texture_. The softness of her long thin hair. The pleasant dryness of her hands, with the slightly rougher pads on the palms and ends of her fingers before her claws; not unlike a cat’s, perfect for swiping things or catching yourself when scrambling away. Caleb had felt the difference when they’d held hands before.

He considers feeling Nott draw her hand across his pectorals, or to touch his face, the slight scrape of her beans against the scruff of his beard or his chest hair above the scars. Her sharp hips and shallow breasts, warm to the touch, eyes bright as moons with the center warm and rounded as she’d lie almost nose to nose with him.  
Caleb holding her sides, familiar from so many nights of them huddling together to keep warm and then for comfort; but now with nothing between his blackened-fingertips hands and her green skin, pockmarked by her own scars which proved her name. They’d feel either raised and rope-like or strangely smooth under his fingers. Maybe she’d arch her back into his touch, with the rumbling pleasure-sound she makes that’s not exactly a purr but isn’t quite anything else. Her jewellery would glitter in whatever light there was. It would be beautiful. Her teeth might glitter, too-- for all she hid and disguised herself, she tried to stay as clean as possible, now that they had the time and means.  
If he was honest (he wasn’t) he could admit her teeth could excite him, sharp and shining as they were, in the same part of his gut that liked the way magical fire felt in his hand, so close and so dangerous and yet no danger to him. What would the texture of her lips be? He’d lean closer to kiss her, carefully, like-- well, like--

Like he’d seen her and Yeza kiss.

_No._ Suddenly it’s all too much. Too disrespectful. As he recoils from the thought, startling himself, the rest of the world returns. His eyes snap open and Caleb realizes, mortified, that he’s been panting into the sheets. He’s not completely hard yet but ten years ago he would have been.

Thank all the gods no one else is in here. He rolls onto his side, consciously moving his legs as little as possible to not encourage himself. It is still incredibly uncomfortable, and really would be faster to just deal with directly-- he can feel his heart hammering on his ribs-- but he refuses.  
Caleb runs through all the swears he knows in his own language and Common, mumbling them steadily into the pillow, and tries to shut his thoughts out.

*

(It doesn’t work.)

  
*

He wants to kiss Nott. Now that the idea has taken root in his brain, like she'd taken root in his heart, he can’t shake it. It's terrifying. The sheer audacity of himself to inflict his _feelings_ on anyone, let alone her, who’s married and has a child and a chance at happiness, and--  
Loyalty is one thing, he can and did offer his loyalty. Friendship is understandable and dear to him. Love is a disaster. Caleb can't possibly be in love with her. He _can't._

He wants to kiss her.

  
Days that feel like months later, Caleb is temporarily a giant eagle. The lower intelligence of the beast frees his mind of anxiety in a way he still doesn't fully expect even after several transformations. In the moment before he drops the polymorph he looks over at Nott and thinks, very simply, _love,_ and his eagle body waddles over to try combining a very human motion with his current shape. He _pecks pecks pecks_ the top of her head.  
Then the spell vanishes, and he finds himself following his momentum even as all the doubts and self-recrimination and anxiety come rushing back and his stomach vanishes to another plane.  
  
His lips brush her skin. A complex emotion (part joy and part sorrow and part indescribable) washes over him so strongly his vision fades out for a moment.  
  
It is nothing. It is an innocent, chaste kiss on her forehead, right beneath the sideways bangs that nearly cover her amber-light eyes, and he doesn’t linger.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this one is from 'Backflip', by the Front Bottoms ([link to the song here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPpDewFmzEs)), which tonally is wildly different than this fic but seemed to fit at the time.  
>  _"There are answers here, they're just harder to figure out  
>  since all of your questions got harder to dodge and dip around;  
> and there's nothing wrong with my lifestyle,  
> no matter how many times I tell myself  
> to breathe in, hold it, hold it, now let it out.  
> Now let it out."_
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	2. Uthodurn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoilers for episode 74!  
> I swear this was going to be a oneshot, _But Then,,_  
>  The "die and do the dishes" line comes from 'Hellboy II'. Thank you for reading.  
> -

His wife? His _wife?_

Caleb can barely choke the word out in his apology to the Scribe Warden, and how Beauregard doesn’t notice his poorly-concealed panic attack on the walk up to this new teleportation circle is a mystery to him, but he is grateful nonetheless for her rare display of distraction.

Because this is. He is. Something. He’s shaking and he hides it under his Xorhassian coat’s long sleeves.  
Somehow he’d never considered it before. Not that extent. (Imagining her body, giving affection, is wildly inherently different.) But it isn’t at all that he's _dismayed_ at the idea of being-- of him and Nott being in a-- and certainly not because of her, anyone would be lucky-- _Yeza_ is lucky--  
It’s that exact knowledge that makes his throat close up. If he’d known what Nott was going to use as an excuse for shooting him he would’ve asked her to aim for his chest instead.  
... no, he wouldn’t. Caleb could never ask her to do something that would hurt her so badly. She had asked him, but that was different; he was already a murderer of people he loved, and he’d be doing her a service-- and if he could find what he needed, she wouldn’t have to suffer, and he’d still be able to help her. She needed him.

Not the way you’d need a spouse, though. He'd never have that level of closeness to her. Always a friend, never a-- it hurts to think ~~husband~~ _love_ directly so Caleb’s mind flinches away from it, abstracting. His thoughts land on _partners._  
Partnership, marriage. It’s so strange how the lines delineate and then come together ( _h_ _a_ ) around the two concepts, and yet they both imply togetherness, commitment. But one implies nothing except that, whereas the latter implies _forever_... as well as mundanity. The bureaucratic work of building a business, the domestic work of cooking and cleaning, staying in one place, sharing tea with shots of whiskey, doing kitchen chores.

Nott didn’t like tea. But she liked when Yeza made it for her. She’d never had Caleb’s cooking; he wasn’t good for much except barbeque. He’s suddenly desperate to remember if he’d ever tasted anything Nott had made, back in the Xorhaus, the one place they’d been able to put down roots and be at least somewhat comfortable after so long.

He would kill for Nott if he’d had to. (He already did.) He would do kitchen chores for her too. He’d kill and do kitchen chores. He’d be _happy_ with it.  
Before he can slam that box closed the thought escapes: _we could be happy_.

A chasm yawns in his chest. Within it circles more terror than Caleb knows what to do with, and he gets almost dizzy as he looks down into it.

But they are still walking through the Steeple, and the Scribe Warden has coughed loudly to catch Beau’s attention from where she’d swanned off to the left to look at some books. Oh, the _books_. Another layer of anger and regret floods over him; he couldn’t’ve stopped this useless, selfish yearning long enough to appreciate the books?  
Beau reappears at his side supernaturally fast, using her monk training, with a plastered-on polite smile, using her lessons from Fjord; so he can’t show anything, he can’t. Beau and the others need him, and Nott among them. Stay on the _damned_ task, Widowgast.

So he does. He represses and compartmentalizes and shoves the thoughts away long enough to focus on the thing they’d came back in here for, listening sharply for anything of interest, and keeping the space of mind to ask _where, what time, if I may be able to return to the library-- no, well that's understandable, thank you, Beauregarde let's_ \--

It’s still almost audible, the tearing of his heart.

/


	3. Rosohna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags added: Caleb Widogast Is A Mess. It was always true, but now it's official.
> 
> Spoilers for episode 91!  
> Again, this was _supposed_ to be a one-shot, but as we all know, EVENTS  
> The tone of this chapter was inspired by aromanticpicard's fic ['oh, my friends' (link)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314031), which looks at Nott's thoughts over the last episode and is very good.

Everything about the day had already made him lightheaded, and then she kisses him.

The sheer intellectual euphoria of figuring out such complicated, _intricate_ magic, the heart filled to bursting of having friends at his sides helping him. Joy at being able to provide this service for his dearest, Nott, his partner, after so long, being able to do this one unquestionable good thing for, and help cease her pain. The crest of a wave. Sparks of attraction as he looked across the room at Essek and beamed, and the handsome, intelligent drow man beamed back at him, and for a moment Caleb thinks, _well, maybe, in the future, if--_

Then the come-down, the realization, the _in_ _the future._ Nott. A pre-emptive panic and crushing loneliness at losing her. Heartsickness. Sharp as a knife under his ribs, as the others gently talk her through her options. Seeing her uncertainty, and hearing she might leave them. For her own happiness, yes, her own family, and while he doesn’t regret being able to give this to her, not for a second-- he would hate to see her go. He would _hate_ it. And that is selfish, but he can no more stop himself from feeling it than he could stop himself loving her to begin with.

To say that his stomach is in ropes would be an understatement. His stomach is tightly-pulled rigging of sails on a ship far from any horizon, a tumultuous sea underneath and darkness around.

He will still help her, of course. He can’t possibly do anything else. 

And then she kisses him.

Her lips are warm and dry, like they’ve been any other time they’ve kissed, but this time it is different, because they’re on his. Sweetly. Intentionally. Her touch is familiar but the context gives the action more weight than it has. And the ship in Caleb’s gut is thrown sideways again. Oh. _Oh_.

Ridiculous to think of, but the perfect play his memory keeps blurs backwards to the last time he’d shared such things with someone. Astrid. Astrid-as-she-was, over a decade before, face unscarred except for a nick above her eyebrow from playing swordfights with her sister when they were all still young, so very strong and traumatized and beloved. Eodwulf close beside them, arms around each others shoulders, all three of them fresh with anger and sorrow over the “betrayal” they’d all suffered. The touch soft and fast, a commiseration of grief and a promise of solidarity before they all returned to school and told Ikithon what they had learned. What they’d thought they’d learned.

It’s different with Nott. So very different. In so many ways. And he wants to move forwards, to meet her, wants so _desperately._ Weeks before, he’d thought-- and he’s been dreaming, since, not that he’d spoken _anything_ aloud to a soul--

But what does this _mean_ to her? To Veth? If she has feelings, like _that,_ for... if there’s any way that she...   
He’s going to still cast this spell for her, he _can’t_ do anything else, he won’t, but the question rings incessantly in his head in the fraction of a second that extends far longer than should be possible. Enough that in the very back of his mind he wonders if Essek is working dunamantic magic while he is distracted; but that thought is swiftly ignored, entirely outside his current sphere of caring. The sphere extends only to himself and the woman in front of him. The echoes of her husband and son standing invisibly nearby.

Even as he thinks it, he takes an instant for tight-lipped loathing of himself and his many failures-- inability to focus, catastrophizing. Mixing metaphors. His mind is a stagehouse, his stomach a ship in a storm, his attention a circle, and his heart is-- his heart--

Now is not the time. There’s work to do.

  
Caleb still instinctively takes in a single breath after the kiss, not even a gasp, lips parted.  
She pulls back and meets his eyes so steadily, so _bravely_. “Thank you, Caleb,” she says, as he’s silent and as if he doesn’t owe her his life several times over, “For getting me this far. And for... devoting yourself to, to me.”  
_I would devote myself to you forever_ runs across the front of his mind. Along its heels are flashes of gold, one band as a promise and one hundred pieces worth to take her from him; but he doesn’t move or say anything. This moment is fragile like a soap bubble, around them, its surface sparkling with light. Gods, how his chest aches.

Unbidden, his hand moves up to her face and cradles her cheek, memory ticking down details as it commits itself to the feel of her skin-- warm and dry as her lips-- and the sharpness of her cheekbone under his palm. Treasuring the closeness, more than the face, but still both. He will love her as Veth. He will miss her so awfully. His legs are shaking underneath him.

He needs to move now or he won’t be able to leave her at all. The first words that come to him fall from his lips, gently. “This will be our best trick yet.”

  
~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ‘his dearest’ in the first paragraph isn’t a typo, it’s Comma Sexting, to steal a line from LMM on twitter. \o/ If anyone sees any other typos, please tell me, though, because that was the only one I did on purpose.  
> The first ten or so minutes of this Thursdays episode are going to be. Something??? Something. We’ll get through this together
> 
> Thank you again.


	4. Kamordah, On The Way

Yasha means well. He is glad she's talking with someone; his possibly-Celestial friend _needs_ someone to talk to right now, Caleb would have to be a fool not to notice that. It's an honour that she's chosen him specifically. He'd thought he was ready for anything she might want to speak about. Had in fact made a promise to her, to himself, to the universe, that he would answer honestly and kindly.

Still, her soft, "Do you love her?" sends him careening.

His thoughts kick into overdrive, analyzing all the components of the question like it’s part of Halas’ damnable equation, even as his own falls from his lips; and barely hearing her murmured, “I don’t need to tell you who” in return.

Outside his panic, in the five and a half seconds of quiet that have passed in the real world, Caleb is vaguely aware of his hands flexing, jerkily, then grabbing onto his arms tighter as if that could help steady himself.

The problem is not the asking. The problem is the answer. It's that the answer is _yes._ Regardless of the woman Yasha is thinking of-- there could only be three-- yes, Caleb loves her. But what is the shape of that love? And which _her_? 

He loves Astrid, like an old bruise his fingers still skate over from time to time, a memory so mired in sorrow and pride and shared misery that even to think of it is to spin his head. The ache is the same. It is how Caleb loves her, and how Bren loved her, all pressed closely together until there’s no room for him to sort out the feelings separately into past and present. It is true that his entire experience of loving her is a memory. It’s, however, unfair to himself and to Astrid, to _everyone_ and everything he’s ever been, ever went through, to say that the memory means nothing. In a very real way, all that Caleb-Bren is is memory. That gives the whole issue of him being comatose from trauma in the Forgotten Asylum for eleven years a certain tang of irony, like a mouthful of blood, but that’s neither here nor there.

But he does not think he can say, truthfully, that he loves Astrid _now._ And in any case, Yasha did not know he had seen Astrid in the past decade, let alone barely half-again a week ago. There was no reason for her to be asking about Astrid.

  
He loves Jester, for her delight and her inventiveness and her willingness to cause chaos that is only tempered by her fierce commitment to what she, herself loved. Her kindness and her strength, both emotional and physical. Caleb still blushes to see her naked, or even hear her talking about nakedness, no matter how many times they’ve all bathed in the jacuzzi back at the Xhorhaus now. He loves her brashness. And her careful delicateness around matters that need it. Her duplicity itself is wonderful.  
Had he been too obvious, somehow, in his affections? To have Yasha notice? Did _everyone_ know? Why would she be asking now? What could he have missed, if Yasha meant their tiefling friend? 

And then of course--

  
He loves Nott. That’s nearly a full thought on its own. In the way that the surface of a river is nearly the river. It’s been so long, Nott had _kissed him,_ and it’s still so. So. It’s.  
He struggles to think of it fully. Astrid is pain and camradery and loyalty and fierce pride, Jester is affection and warmth and healing like ice on a burn, and Nott is-- is _his_. Caleb doesn’t mean that in any kind of, of claim or ownership sense, and the thought makes his stomach turn over and fly halfway up his throat. But she belongs _with_ him, or more precisely _he_ belongs with _her_ , innately, he relies on her support and her guidance and her leads in so much, he named himself _for her._ Nott is long nights with his nose rest on her hair, bright eyes looking out for him in the dark, partnership and togetherness, panic so complete whenever she’s in danger that his throat closes off and the skin on his hands blacken with magic entirely too strong for the situation which doesn’t matter at all until she is free.  
He loves her like he’s drowning. Which is an awful thing to say.

And she might be leaving him soon, the final leaving, for real. In maybe only a matter of _days,_ he might-- he might never share such closeness with her again. Caleb feels himself start to shake and take in harsher breaths as though that will steady him. It's strange, this grief. This all-encompassing loss.

"Before it's too late," Yasha is saying, so gently, as she so often is. All happening at something of a remove.  
" _It is too late,_ " he hears himself whispering, barely moving the air with his breath.

The only thing that draws him out of the spiraling dark is hearing Yasha mumble an apology, and a promise not to judge him— Caleb shakes his head. It’s not her fault simple questions send him falling into a chasm no one but him can see. He reaches out to reassure her as much as he can.  
Thank the gods, it helps; the doubt and flickers of self-recrimination on her face fade.  
  
Eventually they both fall quiet to let the dome and silver string serve watches in their stead.

Caleb lays on his side, eyes open and staring up at the cold Empire constellations. Yasha is a good woman, a good friend. He's happy to have spoken with her, though it's accompanied by a marrow-deep ache he's well familiar with. Ringing in his head, her question remains.

 _Who_?

Gods help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to GleefullyMacabre for this one. Raises a glass of inadvisable liquor in your direction  
> \+ also I haven't watched the latest Talks, but I have Heard Things, so tomorrow's (and/or next week) ep is going to be extra entertaining eh? We Will See! We will see.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.


	5. Nicodranas Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added tags: 'Bittersweet Ending'  
> Chapter warnings: mention of alcohol dependency, Complicated Feelings in re: emotional infidelity, and canon-typical mentions of self-loathing.
> 
> ~

Caleb wasn't in love with her. She loved him in every way-- as a friend, yes, romantically, yes, sexually, so much it made her hands hurt. And he didn’t love her back.  
Veth spent the return trip from Kamordah trying to reckon with that.

  
In the Lavish Chateau, the gentle coolness of the stone walls protected them from anything outside. The Ruby Of The Sea’s private bathing room was large, but not _that_ large when it had seven people and a weasel and a fae cat in it. Even with all of their body heat, the shadows were forgiving on the floor.  
Caleb had looped a ribbon over the outer doorknob as the universal sign for “We’re fucking, don’t knock”-- Veth had to swallow a hysterical laugh.

She watched as Jester put down one of her Traveller Con cloaks as a tarp, and as everyone else set to work making the second iteration of the clay trough which would be her cocoon. They set it up inside the ornate ceramic tub-- which she hoped they weren’t going to break, it really was beautiful and Marion had been so lovely to them all.  
Then even that last preparation was done and the Mighty Nein all turned towards her. Their faces were so dear to her. Veth blinked fast, her eyes filling with tears.

This time they were sure the spell would work. Her friends had loved her enough, they’d supported her through everything, that she could actually get her wish without... losing everything else. And, gods, Veth was so _glad._  
Glad enough that Caleb’s gentle, kindly-implied rejection almost didn’t hurt as much. Almost.

As she stood, feeling the strange pre-storm air that manifested before great magic, all she could think was how _fucking crazy_ the whole past few weeks had been. And she was out of time.

She’d known she was in love with Caleb for... gods, a while now. Longer than she would’ve liked to think about.

But her heart hurt with how much she loved Yeza, too. The love was real; it was tangled together with so many other things she wasn’t sure what to even think about it, and it hurt to consider. But the fundamental theory remained true: Veth loved her husband, and she missed him. She ached to see him. It wasn’t-- _fair_ to be thinking of another man the same way.

If she’d just had more time-- she would’ve been able to redirect her feelings for Caleb, or bury them again, or let them go. That’s what she’d been _trying_ to do, the last time; to let them go. In retrospect kissing him on the mouth wasn’t the clearest way she could’ve gone about that, but it wasn’t-- The kiss had been-- well, _nice_ , Even though he’d hardly responded at all. She’d taken the whole thing too fast, that time, Veth was sure, and she felt terrible about it now, of course, but-- maybe he hadn’t been too shocked, or disgusted? He’d kept talking to her about the same at least.  
Not that that was the point. She hadn’t meant it to be nice. Not exactly. She’d meant it to be a marker to a chapter’s end. A relinquishing.  
Instead the entire goddamn affair had just been a whirlwind inside a whirlwind. Figuring out the spell with Caleb and hotboy, the strange arc of elation and crestfall and fear that followed, then the tide of uncertainty that’d came rushing back even as all of her friends had promised they would help her, and she’d believed them, with all her bursting heart.

And to have that promise _fulfilled_ , to have them all looking at her now-- it was wonderful! She just... she was still so _scared._ It’d all been so quick.

What the hell was she going to do now? What can one possibly say to their friends before something like this; when all she wanted the most is suddenly so _there,_ and so _real,_ and so _dangerous_? What do you say to people you love before the rest of your life?  
How do you tell the man who isn’t your husband that you’re in love with him, when you know it isn’t returned?

Swallowing, Veth started with _thank you._ She thanked everyone, as sincerely and specifically as she could: and then turned to Caleb again.

Oh, Caleb.

He'd tied his hair back in a dinky ponytail that barely held together, taken off his handsome purple coat and elven-made chain shirt and rolled up his sleeves, and was looking at her with a soft, needy, expression. Without all his layers her wizard seemed much smaller. She’d seen him in worse, of course, but it still... felt different. How vulnerable he was. The open look on his face reminded her suddenly and irrevocably of how Yeza had looked before their first time making love.  
That was a _hell_ of a comparison to make, and she felt her face burn. It wouldn’t be much visible, just green against slightly paler green, but still.

  
God, she wanted her own body back. She wanted her own soft, brown skin. (Especially since it was dark enough to disguise much of a blush.) She wanted to kiss her husband without teeth in the way. She wanted to hold her baby with the body she’d made him in. She wanted to feel like _herself._

(Veth wanted a _drink_ , but no, she wasn’t doing that anymore. She wouldn’t.)

And-- maybe then she wouldn’t feel such... crawling need to be close to Caleb, too; to be with him, and _with_ him in the carnal sense. She’d dreamed of them laying naked together on nice hotel sheets, or dirt roads, with Caleb’s clever mouth and/or hands between her legs more times than she really cared to count. Or her clawed hands slid into his pants as he murmured eager encouragements to her, pressing kisses to her cheeks. Especially during the stress-compacted early days on the Mystake, her imagination had been... pretty crazy. And before then, when she’d had more of herself to cling to, she’d had more than enough thoughts of him on the road. It’d been great, honestly, a nice break from the watery hell and a bit of fantasizing at the time that’d seemed harmless.  
The fantasizing seemed to come more vividly (so to speak) as a goblin than it had as a halfling. She didn’t know if the correlation was _because_ she was a goblin-- if her libido had been amplified like so many of her feelings had gotten compacted and set alight when she’d been turned-- or because of the combined stress and joy-adrenaline of adventuring. She didn’t even know which one she hoped for. It would undoubtably be easier if being in love with Caleb was Nott The Goblin Girl’s feelings, not... hers.

Though. She was afraid of that, too. That this attraction, this abiding love, was some base goblinoid instinct that the time with the clan had somehow imprinted on her.  
Veth _wanted_ wanting Caleb to be hers. Her desire, her love, even her guilt if it came to that. She wanted it to be as whole as the love she had for Yeza, which even the hag and months in the wretchedness of the goblin camp hadn’t taken from her.

Right now, it wasn’t.

  
She wanted to kiss him again. She wouldn’t, obviously. He didn’t love her back in that way. And that was... fine. It was more than fine. It was _okay._ It was _good._ She just needed some more time, Veth decided, in the last, endless moment of waiting. After all this. To think more and process her... everything. It felt too presumptious to say ‘heartbreak’.

  
She looked into Caleb’s eyes. They were the colour of clear sky, of home. They really were the brightest, nicest blue she’d ever seen, except for Yeza’s. She ached to see him with her own eyes soon. She ached trying to specify which ‘him’ she meant. Veth just... ached.

“Thank you for being with me,” she said finally, her voice only cracking a little. “I love you.”

Her Caleb nodded, then said, softly, “I love you too, Veth.”

And, _oh,_ if that wasn’t the sweetest thing she’d ever heard, even with the dart of pain underneath it. She wiped tears off of her cheeks and told herself to savour the kindness, not just the _if only._

  
  
He offered her his hand. Like he was helping a fine lady onto a dance floor, instead of a goblin into a (admittedly very fancy) bathtub.

Veth wobbled another smile and accepted as gracefully as she could. With a deep breath, she climbed in, holding tight to her friend until she laid down on the clay.

- _fin._ -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💛💛💛
> 
> To be super clear, this is the actual for real proper end to this fic. Like, even if the inspiration bug bites me again, it'll be in a different story.  
> I figured that as much as I'd legit originally meant it as a oneshot, three (3) times I felt like I needed to post another installment due to Feelings, so it deserves a proper ending. And thus here we are again except reversed! How the turn tables, etc
> 
> Honestly it feels weird to write a, slightly, angsty end? Usually I don't. But it felt appropriate here, hopefully I did some justice.
> 
> Keep safe and be well, everyone. It'll be Thursday again eventually.  
> Thank you for reading ♡


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